Trigger
by Genevia
Summary: "A person who yearned for acceptance, recognition, love. And most of all, to feel." Burt Hummel was sure that those words weren't there when he last visited.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own Glee. If I did, Rachel would have a lot more fashion sense.

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><p>Cold, dense water plops onto my face. It is a good thing I had already closed my eyes when I saw a bright red letterman jacket. Their harsh laughs and jeers of 'fairy' reach my ears, yet I stand still, motionless and unmoving.<p>

It has always been the same and I know it will never change. Their smirks, taunts, violent shoves...

They will never stop.

That's all right though, I have gotten used to it. Don't look at me that way. They have tortured me every day of my high school life so it is really no surprise that it doesn't affect me anymore.

I slowly trudge towards the nearest ladies' room, falling into the same old routine.

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><p>It hasn't always been like this. Before all of this, I was happy, jovial, <em>loud<em>.

Yeah, I know it's surprising. Now, you can't even hear a peep out of my mouth or see a smile on my face.

I don't have to wonder why.

I have been taunted and teased for the better part of my existence. As such, I have had enough of moping and bawling my eyes out. I've already cried my tear ducts out because of the hurt and the pain. So I did the next best thing...

I stopped feeling.

It was involuntary at first yet as time went by, it became as simple as breathing air.

And I hate it.

I feel so empty.

I don't know how to say _i-love-you'_s anymore.

I'm lifeless.

Now I want to feel again, even if it means doing what I have utterly detested ever sine I knew of its existence.

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><p>I slowly slide the razor across the skin of my arm, biting my lips from the pain. Blood oozes out of the wound and I stare at it. It is so beautiful that I can hardly keep myself from making a parallel cut... and another... and another...<p>

It feels so good. I haven't felt anything for so long that this kind of sensation causes chills to run up and down my spine. The pounding that my heart makes completely mesmerizes me. It's fear, that much I know. And I savor it. It's been too long since I've felt anything.

It hurts. There's so much pain as I carve another cut to my arm. Stop it! I hate pain! I am not a masochist! I-I...

I release a deep breath and let go of the bloodied razor. It drops to the floor with a metallic _'ting'_. I stare at it, horrified at what I had done. My arms are a bloodied mess. Zigzagging lines crisscross each other in an intricate pattern. Blood wells up in every one of the wounds I had inflicted on myself. Slowly and ever so slowly, I lift up a hand and wipe my blood-soaked arm, spreading the red liquid on my skin. A pained cry escapes my lips. That fucking hurt.

My eyes close. There are excruciating yet pleasurable sensations that pulsate on my tortured skin. The cuts sting horribly and throb like mad. In an entirely eerie way however, they feel like complete ecstasy.

Pain and pleasure all rolled up in one.

I fight the urge to pick up the razor and create more art.

Next time. There would always be a next time.

A knock on the door breaks the silence of my labored breathing. "Honey? Are you fine?" a voice asks. I gawk at the closed door and gulp. It was a good thing I had closed it or someone would have found about _this_.

"I'm f-fine!" I shout out, barely able to keep the stutter unnoticeable.

The voice inquires once more, as it does not believe my words. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! I'm sure!" I scream, my chest heaving. The voice leaves and I am once more left to my own devices.

I eye the bloodied razor on the floor. It seems to call out to me, beckoning to me. It knows that I want to feel again, and it knows that it is the only thing that can give what I want.

It's true.

I pick it up once more and start where I left off.

_Slice. Cut. Scratch._

.

.

.

_Bleed. Bleed. Bleed._

.

.

.

_Scream. Laugh._

.

.

.

_Cry._

.

.

.

_Sigh._

.

.

.

_Die._

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><p><strong>KURT ELIZABETH HUMMEL<strong>

_1994 - 2011_

_Son. Friend. Artist._

And scratched on the gravestone were these words:

_A person who yea__rned for acceptance, recognition, love._

_And most of all, to feel._

Burt Hummel was sure that those words weren't there when he last visited.

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><p><strong>AN: **Hehe... This was supposed to be an original of mine, with no relation to Glee whatsoever. However, with all of what I've been reading about Kurt cutting himself, I decided to relate this to him. And yes, this is actually me. LMAO, me if I had enough courage (Wow, Blaine much?).

Anywho, review! Or an episode with no Klaine shall commence! Muahahahahaha!


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